


Enough is Enough (But Not)

by weathervaanes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn’t an idiot.  Stiles is one hundred percent aware of the fact that his boyfriend has a girlfriend.  He knows—because Derek is honest and doesn’t like hiding shit from him.  So, even though he and Derek have been seeing each other for four months now, Derek and Braeden have been seeing each other for two, and Stiles knows.  He knows.</p><p>-0-</p><p>In which Derek has a lot of love to give and Stiles doesn't understand why he isn't enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, so we're trying this again. I like to have a lot of faith in the Teen Wolf fandom (even though that's bit me in the ass many times) and so I am COUNTING on you all to NOT post negative anonymous comments, or else the anonymous option will be disabled for the sake of my sanity.
> 
> IF YOU DO NOT LIKE ANYTHING YOU SEE IN THE TAGS, DO NOT READ THIS FIC. 
> 
> Otherwise, hope you enjoy!
> 
> ETA: You failed. Anonymous commenting is disabled.
> 
> ETA2: No, this isn't a happily ever after fic. It's a people are massively complicated and so are their relationships, sometimes you love people and you have them in your life and it isn't all roses - fic. That's life, the Authoresses reserve the right to continue writing complex plots for different pairings and not putting up with childishness.

Stiles isn’t an idiot. Stiles is one hundred percent aware of the fact that his boyfriend has a girlfriend. He knows—knows before US Weekly knows, knows before TMZ knows—because Derek is honest and doesn’t like hiding shit from him. So, even though he and Derek have been seeing each other for four months now, Derek and Braeden have been seeing each other for two, and Stiles knows. He knows.

Braeden does a lot of adventure/action films. She does all of her own stunts and is, in general, a huge badass. Derek’s work is kind of in the same vein, except he’s the stunt double, not the actor. They met on the set of a TV show Braeden was guest staring on as a favor to a friend, and then they were hooking up in Derek’s apartment, while Stiles sat on the couch a few feet away.

Braeden and Stiles never touch. They’ve hugged once or twice, pat each other’s shoulders, but they don’t have sex. Stiles has sex with Derek, Braeden has sex with Derek, and sometimes Derek will just jerk himself off in front of them, just for fun, but—no. Stiles and Braeden don’t touch. They haven’t even kissed.

Stiles figures his days are numbered. Braeden is killer gorgeous, witty as fuck, and despite her gruff personality, she actually cares a shit ton about Derek. So Stiles knows that, eventually, Derek’s gonna stop calling, and he’ll walk quietly out of Derek’s life, saving face.

Stiles doesn’t know how often Derek and Braeden see each other. He isn’t sure that he wants to know. He’ll get a phone call at least once a week, asking him to dinner, to bowling, to some other kind of function. He and Derek meet up, go out, eat, and end up back at Derek’s apartment. They have sex, good sex, the best sex of Stiles’ life—and then Stiles goes home.

He didn’t always leave right after. He used to stay, for the two months it was just them, and then for the first few weeks after Derek started seeing Braeden too. Maybe it was like a claim, trying to keep Derek more just his, but now he doesn’t know. Now he isn’t sure what to do anymore.

* * *

 

Derek had asked him. Lying in bed, nearly touching but not quite there.

“There’s this girl. Woman.”

“Yeah?”

“She asked me out.”

Stiles blinks. They never outlined their relationship, if they were exclusive or not, if they were allowed to see other people. “What’d you say?” he asks, trying to remain nonchalant.

“I said yes,” Derek tells him. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t know if he’s lying. “No, that’s fine. I hope you have a good time.”

Derek is quiet for a moment. Then, “Can I sleep with her?”

“If you want to.”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Okay.”

* * *

Derek and Stiles met because Stiles’ best friend was a guest director on the TV show Derek stunt-doubles for. Scott mostly does films, but after he won an Oscar, he branched out a little bit, agreed to make guest appearances on sets for a few months. Stiles tagged along on a filming day, and he’s famous in his own right, a screenwriter with a handful of awards on his bookshelf at home, but no one that someone is outright going to recognize walking down the street. Derek knew who he was. Derek asked him out. Derek went down on him for twenty-two minutes in his bedroom and then fucked him so perfectly that he saw stars.

Sex has never been as good with other people as it is with Derek. He hasn’t slept with anyone since Derek—a fact that weighs heavy on his mind and constantly encourages him to amend it—but he’s been sexually active since he was seventeen. He knows sex. He likes sex. And Derek is the best sex he’s ever had.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling petulant, he wonders how Braeden feels about sex with Derek. He wonders if he’s the best she’s ever had, if she’s sleeping with other guys too. Then that leads him to wonder if they’re the only two people Derek is doing. Maybe there are others.

Derek calls him one night while he’s thinking about this. He’s in a coffee shop, writing on his laptop, putting the final touches on a script that’s hours away from a deadline. It’s Derek’s MO, interrupting him at important times.

“Come over,” Derek says.

“I’m working.”

“When’s the deadline?”

Stiles glances at his watch. “Three hours, twenty-one minutes.”

“Finish in one.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want you to come over and fuck me.”

Stiles swallows tightly. “What about Br—”

“I didn’t call Braeden. I called you. Do you want to come over or not?”

Stiles’ heart thuds. He can practically hear the practice snips of the scissors, getting ready to cut that string that’s barely holding him and Derek together. He sucks in a deep breath, looks at his document. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he says, and he hangs up.

He shows up fifteen minutes late, but Derek doesn’t say anything about it. He grabs Stiles’ bag at the door, tosses it onto the couch, takes Stiles’ computer and sets it down gently on the coffee table. Then he closes the front door and presses Stiles up against it, kisses him like he hasn’t seen him in several weeks, like he’s missed him.

“Hey,” Stiles says into his mouth. “What’s up?”

“Take off your clothes.”

It’s already deteriorating. No dinner, no music, no back-and-forth. Just the sex. But still, Stiles does as he’s told, peeling off his jacket, kicking off his shoes. Derek had answered the door in boxer briefs, so he’s already naked and in bed by the time Stiles is half undressed.

Derek is quiet tonight. Sure, he makes noises and he revs Stiles up with his words, encourages him, goads him on, but that’s it. He feels more distant, closed off, and he rides Stiles impatiently, like he doesn’t care for foreplay or comfort or closeness. He only wants the sex, the orgasm, and then he can kick Stiles out after.

Stiles kisses him a lot, keeps himself from coming only by thinking that this has to last because it might be the very last time he’s in Derek’s bed. So, he focuses on Derek’s mouth, on the tight skin of his balls and his perineum, ripe and swollen and throbbing when Stiles rubs it with two fingers. Derek makes broken noises, fucking himself harder on Stiles’ cock, and Stiles suffers through it, focusing all of his energy on waiting to come.

Derek traps Stiles flat on his back when he finally comes, hands big and strong and forceful against Stiles’ chest, and he shoots all over Stiles’ abdomen, thick stripes of come from Stiles’ chin to his bellybutton, decorating him. Claiming him.

Stiles feels shaky, destroyed, lost. It’s like he’s past the point of orgasm, like his opportunity arose and he shoved it aside, so it’s given up on him. Even if Derek kept moving, kept burying Stiles to the hilt in his body, Stiles isn’t sure it would do anything. He feels left in the dust.

Derek lifts himself off of Stiles, scooting down his body, and Stiles feels like he’s on an operating table. He feels examined, judged, vulnerable, and he wants to escape as quickly as he possibly can—but Derek’s hands in his hips hold him down. Derek’s fingers peeling off the condom and tossing it away, Derek’s mouth descending on his length, they keep him where he is, weakly staring as Derek gives him the sloppiest, most thorough blowjob he’s ever received.

When he comes, he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Even though it’s a release, it doesn’t even feel pleasurable. It just feels like it’s—over. He feels depleted, empty. Hollow. And even the relief that comes from his body’s completion doesn’t make his chest feel any less tight.

Derek kisses him, one hand in his hair, the other on his chest, kisses him with the taste of Stiles’ come still on his tongue.

It’s never just been sex with them. There’s always something more. They’ll watch TV or put on a movie, order food, talk about Stiles’ writing or Derek’s work. They put effort into being with each other, and right now there’s none of that. Stiles can see the writing on the wall, can feel Derek silently pushing him away, and he’s only following that force when he stands from the bed and gets dressed.

Derek doesn’t stop him when he leaves.

* * *

 

Stiles guest lectures at UCLA basically every month, if not more. He attended undergrad there, was hired as a writer on his very first job shortly after graduating, and managed to snatch up his graduate degree because of the work he’d done on campus. He owes a lot to that school, and he doesn’t have the slightest problem with leading workshops or speaking to classes. That’s never translated into attending their parties, though, not until some girl with Greek letters on her tank top hands him a flyer and says if he doesn’t drop by, she’ll never forgive him.

Stiles doesn’t sleep with college students. That would be—terrible. Their TA, however, who’s in her fourth year of graduate school, is another matter altogether. Her name is Malia, and she’s not the girl in the tank top, but she’s much, much better.

“I wanna be a writer,” she says, leaning in close to him.

They’re at one of the sorority houses. He doesn’t remember what it was called. He never understood Greek anyway.

“You’re at the right school,” Stiles tells her.

“I know.” She wraps her arms around his neck; he puts his hands on her waist. The thought passes through his head that she’s only flirting with him—dancing with him, touching him, even speaking to him—because she thinks he can be used as a connection. Stiles isn’t sure if he minds that much.

The dancing is nice. He hasn’t gone out in a long time, hasn’t had a night like this where he can blow off some steam since before he met Derek. He’s really enjoying himself—up until Malia curls her hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and kisses him.

For a second, Stiles kisses her back. She’s soft and warm and comfortable, and she smells like pineapples and tastes like rum. It’s good, fun, and Stiles likes it—except that his body goes cold the second it occurs to him that he’s cheating on Derek.

He jerks back immediately, letting the thought process in his brain.

Cheating. On Derek. Who has regular recurring sex with another person, sometimes hours before or after he’s been with Stiles. Who has had sex with that other person in front of Stiles on two separate occasions. And still, no matter how much Stiles tries to reason with himself, it feels like cheating.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, taking half a step back. “I’m seeing someone.”

Malia blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

“But—if you ever want to talk about writing, or if you need a letter of recommendation or something.” He pulls out the pen he constantly carries in his back pocket, scribbles his phone number down on her arm.

“Just for writing,” she says.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. For writing.”

“Okay.” She smiles, looking down at her arm. “Sure.”

* * *

Sometimes Stiles likes to write in Derek’s loft. It’s big and open and the couch is comfy. He can sit there for hours, listening to Derek move around the space. He’s gotten some of his best writing done there lately. He has a key, so he can walk in whenever, and the Tuesday after the party at UCLA, he’s just gotten the update that vital parts of his script need to be reworked for a project. The only place Stiles wants to be is Derek’s.

When he pulls open the sliding door, it’s 10 o’clock in the morning and Braeden is walking towards the kitchen nook in nothing but one of Derek’s button-ups. It’s long enough that it goes just below her butt, so Stiles is pretty sure she’s not wearing underwear. Derek, on the other hand, is in boxer briefs, sitting on the foot of his bed with a book in hand.

Derek looks up when he enters. Braeden doesn’t.

“Hey,” Derek says, standing.

“I just need to write,” Stiles says, in lieu of greeting. “I can leave.”

“No. Stay.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

He starts to move towards the couch but Derek blocks his path so quickly that Stiles would’ve missed him if he’d blinked. Derek is a solid mass in his way, and he kisses Stiles hello sweetly, one hand on the side of his face, pushing his fingertips through Stiles’ hair.

“I thought you finished the script for that show,” Derek says into his jaw.

“This is the movie script.”

“The one from January?”

“Yeah,” Stiles exhales. Derek’s mouth is on his pulse point now, his other hand settling on Stiles’ hip. “They, uh, got George Clooney to agree to the grandfather character so I have to rewrite a couple parts. Nothing major.”

“That’s exciting.”

“Mhm.”

Derek kisses him again, a little faster this time, more force behind it, and Stiles responds in kind, lost for what else he’s meant to do. Kissing Derek is always wonderful; it always feels like more than foreplay, like a way for Derek to express that he’s missed you, that he’s happy to see you. It makes Stiles feel—wanted.

“I really have to write, Der,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek moves away.

“I’ll grab you a muffin and make you some tea,” Derek tells him, and he enters the kitchen area just as Braeden walks out of it.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” she says, and she picks up her panties and her shirt from the floor by the bed on her way into the bathroom.

Stiles works in silence for several minutes before Derek reappears. There’s no mug of tea, no baked good of any kind, just Derek closing his laptop and setting it down on the coffee table before crawling into his lap.

“Derek—”

“I haven’t seen you in nearly two weeks,” Derek interrupts. “You’re always busy.”

“Yeah, well, I—” He doesn’t get to defend himself. Derek’s mouth covers his, silencing him, and Derek’s hands make quick work of his T-shirt, his belt. His jeans go too, even though he’s not quite sure how that happened without him noticing, and then he’s straddling Derek, kissing him impatiently, desperately, while Derek rubs his dick between Stiles’ thighs and tells him how good he feels.

Derek tries to stand, to carry Stiles towards the bed, and Stiles heaves his weight down, pinning Derek to the sofa.

“Not the bed,” he says breathlessly. It probably still smells like Braeden’s perfume, like her body. He doesn’t want Derek to fuck him on the same sheets where he fucked Braeden. “Here. Just—here.”

“I need to get—”

Stiles lunges for his backpack on the other side of the couch, the little pocket stuffed with lube and condoms, and he’s already got one finger in himself before Derek can finish that sentence.

He knows Braeden has to reappear eventually, that the water’s going to cut off and she’s going to wander out and see them, and it hits him that though he’s witnessed Derek fucking Braeden a few times, Braeden’s never seen Derek fucking him. And he doesn’t know if he’s going to be proud, if he’s going to feel like he can rub this in Braeden’s face, or if he’s going to feel like the one thing he and Derek never shared with anyone is then violated.

He doesn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on that. As soon as he’s prepped and slick, Derek is shoving him onto his back, his backpack pushed off the cushion and his head pillowed on the arm of the couch. Derek settles heavy and warm between his legs and from that moment on, it’s relentless. Derek is a machine, covering him wholly with his body, fucking into him like a piston, stopping for nothing. His elbows are holding up his upper body by Stiles’ head, and Stiles is lost to it, to the sensations of Derek inside of him, so close to him. He feels completely enveloped in Derek, like he could drown in Derek’s scent, in his closeness, and he wouldn’t even be troubled by it.

He doesn’t know how many minutes it’s been. He can’t hear anything but the pounding of his own blood and the soft, eager grunts Derek makes under his breath, layered against slaps of skin on skin. The world is empty except for the two of them, rocking together, losing themselves in each other’s bodies.

“Come,” Derek demands, one hand grasping a cheek of Stiles’ ass, hauling him up and pushing Derek deeper inside of him.

Stiles cries out, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and grips Derek’s shoulders hard. He can’t come yet. Derek has to come first. If—if Derek comes first, then Stiles knows he’s pleased him, know he’s done a good job.

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, but Stiles ignores him, dragging his nails down Derek’s back and stopping only to brush the flat of his forefinger against Derek’s opening. “ _Stiles_.”

There’s something about the way Derek rolls his hips, the way he grinds up inside of Stiles and grabs hold on his cock, strokes it just so. There’s something about it, like a cheat code to Stiles’ body, and it makes him lose his control. His orgasm hits him without warning, and it’s all he can do not to shove them both off the couch with the force of it.

In the aftermath, it feels like failure, the fact that he came first. It feels like he’s disappointed Derek, and it settles like lead, heavy and cold in his stomach. Even as Derek finishes off inside of him, grunting and groaning, Stiles feels like he could’ve done better, and it leaves him feeling cold and angry and frustrated.

Braeden must hand Derek a damp washcloth because he has one without moving. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and wipes Stiles down gently, from chest to cock to ass, cleaning off the worst of the messes. Stiles is numb now, lost, and he’s asleep seconds before Derek tosses a blanket over him.

* * *

 

Malia calls when Stiles is in a meeting. Granted, it’s a very late meeting. Himself, a director, and casting personnel are discussing how to best move forward with what they’ve been working on for the past several months, and it may or may not be over several beers and a large pizza. It’s quarter ‘til midnight when she calls and Stiles figures that’s as good a reason as any to bow out of any continuing conversation.

“ _Heeeeeeeeeey_ ,” Malia drawls. There’s a lot of noise in the background. Stiles is pretty sure she’s in a bar. “So, listen, you know that place on Palm? Uh, that place with _Oak_ in the title? There’s a lot of pretty lights hanging outside of it.”

Stiles sighs. “You have friends to take you places don’t you?”

“Would you believe me if I said they’re all as drunk as I am? Some of them are even drunker.” She giggles. “Drunker. That’s not a word. Is that a word? _More_ …drunk? Drunker?”

“Wait outside,” Stiles tells her. “Near the bouncer. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh my god, you’re the _best_. Guys, guys, Stiles Stilinski is totally gonna come pick me up—” The line cuts off and Stiles laughs to himself as he gets into his car. They’ve been texting a little bit since his lecture, and Malia is a good writer. She’s talented but modest, and she knows there’s still work to be done while still being confident in her ability. It’s something Stiles didn’t learn until, well, a year ago or so. And he’s been writing professionally for longer than that.

Malia is leaning against a guy in all black when he pulls up. She’s dressed in shorts with the American flag printed across the front of them and a maroon long sleeve, thin but warm, and she barrels into his front seat, grinning like the proverbial cat.

“Hey,” she greets him, and she pulls him in by the shirt to kiss him on the mouth. “God, you’re cute. And I’m wasted.” She pokes his cheek. “Boop. Hey, wanna get tacos?”

“Where’s your apartment?”

This seems to stump her. “Um… I think it’s on a street that starts with an L,” she says. “Ummm…”

He drives in circles while she talks. She talks about the club and the dancing and the people; she talks about her school and her friends; she talks about how both of her parents are dead except they adopted her so she knows her real parents are out there so she’s been searching for them for nearly ten years; finally, Stiles pulls over near a McDonald’s and says, “You wanna just sleep at my place?”

Malia stops talking. “Yeah,” she says on an exhale, and she doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive.

He lives in a condo in West Hollywood, near Griddle Café. It’s one of his favorite places, honestly, and even though he hasn’t seen much of his neighborhood lately, there’s always a sense of comfort, pulling into the garage and heading to the front steps. Malia sways on the way up and Stiles grabs onto her so she doesn’t fall. She kisses him again, one arm around his waist, pressed against the door. Stiles lets her.

Once in the building, he helps her out of her shoes and leads her up the stairs to his bedroom. She flops down happily on the mattress, curling up around a pillow, burying her face in another.

“I’ll grab you a glass of water,” he says around an amused smile.

Malia is half asleep already when he returns, mouth open and body pliant. He plugs in his phone—already down to 7% battery—and grabs a pillow, ready to head out to the couch when she speaks.

“You still seeing someone,” she says groggily, not opening her eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles tells her.

“You don’t sound happy ‘bout it.”

“It’s…complicated.”

She hums. “Not fair. I’m not complicated.”

Stiles smirks. “That’s what they all say,” he says, but she’s already passed out, and he closes the door behind himself.

* * *

 

He’s awoken by the loudest pounding of a flimsy wooden door there ever was. He’s blinded by sleep, hasn’t properly woken up, and so he doesn’t think to check the time. It could be two in the morning for all he knows, which isn’t going to stop him from yelling at whatever asshole is probably waking up every tenant on the block.

“What the fuck,” he starts to say, and is promptly silenced by the visage of Derek with his fist raised, ready to punch in the door again. “Derek? What the hell are you doing?”

“Who’s the girl answering your phone?” Derek demands. He pushes past Stiles into his living room, looking around wildly, like he expects her to be walking around. Then he cocks his head and—Stiles can hear it too, the shower running upstairs. “ _Stiles_ —”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asks. “Answering my—”

“I called you,” Derek hisses, “around—I don’t know—two. And _she_ answered your phone. She said you were sleeping.”

“I _was_.”

“Obviously. And I thought, oh, maybe she’s just a coworker who stayed too late, but I could hear—I could hear her moving, and the blankets, and she was in your _bed_ ,” Derek accuses, hands forming fists at his sides.

Indignant rage swells in Stiles. “So you can have other people in your bed but I can’t?”

“ _I asked you for permission_!” Derek shouts, and his voice thunders throughout the house. “I asked you before I slept with Braeden—”

“And that’s obviously eliminated any possible problems with this fucked up relationship!” Stiles interrupts, the anger and frustration spilling out of him as he yells. “It’s obviously fostered such a fucking healthy line of communication, walking in on _my_ boyfriend and _his_ girlfriend fucking on a bed we used to sleep in together, watching them eat breakfast together and come home together from movies. It’s obviously been such a fucking picnic for me, Derek, all because you _asked permission_.”

Derek just breathes for a second, shoulders rising and falling. “Look, I don’t care if you sleep with her—”

“ _I care_!” Stiles explodes. “ _I_ care, Derek. I care because I’m in _love_ with you,” he says, and he shoves Derek—hard. He stumbles back towards the door, catches himself on it. “I care because when she kissed me, it felt like I was cheating on you. I care because I slept on my fucking couch and you could see that if you just used your eyes but instead you’re standing in my living room and yelling at me about sleeping with someone else when that’s all you’ve been doing for weeks, months.” He swallows tightly, refuses to cry. “I care, Derek, because even though I’m not enough for you, you’re all I’ve wanted for months, and I’d rather have part of you than none of you. Does that make you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Stiles—”

“Get out, Derek. Don’t—don’t fucking call me or text me or—or anything, just—get out.” Stiles grabs the door, opens it further and pushes back on Derek’s shoulder. “Go. Get out right the fuck now, Derek, or I swear to God I will call the cops.”

“Stiles, just let me—”

Another hard shove and Derek is gone, stumbling down the steps, and Stiles slams the door in his face, locks it dramatically, and then sinks down to the base of it, feeling worse than has since he was eight years old.

* * *

 

Derek calls even though Stiles said not to. He sends emails. He sends Facebook messages. Stiles doesn’t look at any of them, has Scott delete everything for him. He only does his job and sleeps and eats. He has lunch with Malia every few days, shares some writing with her, and they bond over a mutual dislike for Hugh Jackman, despite Wolverine being an entirely exceptional fictional character.

Malia doesn’t press the issue of Derek. When she came downstairs that morning, found Stiles sitting against the door, she only sat down beside him and asked him if he wanted to talk about it.

She doesn’t ask anymore. But Stiles knows she would listen if he wanted her to.

He gives it a couple weeks. Three. He doesn’t want to have to wait a whole month, doesn’t think that’s fair. As it is, Derek might have given up on him by now. If so, that’ll make it easier for him to walk away, to build himself back up and move on.

He sends Derek a text.

 

**Let me know when a good time to come over and talk is.**

 

He doesn’t have to wait long. He sends the message while he’s in line at Starbucks and the response is in before his tea is finished.

 

**Around 3 today?**

 

He only sends back an _Okay_ , tucks his phone in his pocket, and carries on with his day. At 2:58, he’s outside Derek’s door, stomach tight and uncomfortable, and he forces himself to knock before he can chicken out.

Derek looks—smaller. He also looks like he’s making a valiant effort to appear as such, and Stiles knows it’s his way of trying to seem approachable. It’s always been endearing.

“Hey,” Derek says. “Come in.”

The loft doesn’t really look any different than it had a couple weeks ago. The sheets are green instead of blue this week and the curtains are drawn because it’s a nice day outside, but other than that, it’s practically unchanged. Stiles wanders in, bag drawn tight over his shoulder.

“Can I make you something?” Derek asks. “Tea, coffee, food—”

“I’m okay,” Stiles says, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t have a lot of time, I just know we need to talk.”

Derek nods. “Couch?”

“This isn’t gonna take long, Derek.” He sets his stance, steels his nerve. “I can’t keep carrying on the way we were. Something has to change, and—and I don’t know what it is, but I can’t keep doing this.”

Derek blinks. “Are you asking me to break up with Braeden?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I’m telling you that—that if you don’t love me back, I can’t still be here.”

“Stiles—”

“That’s it, Derek. It’s not a hard question. Do you love me or not?”

Derek’s jaw sets, and the silence is all the answer Stiles needs. It doesn’t even feel like it hurts, really. It just feels like an extension of something he’s been feeling for the last few weeks, and so it’s easy not to break down. It’s easy to step in and kiss Derek’s cheek and walk out of his life, closing the door behind him.


	2. You Say Stop, I Say Go, Go, Go

Malia is actually a great girlfriend. She has a job and she lectures and she sees him basically every day. She sleeps in his bed and they order in food and sometimes he cooks, if only because he likes how pleased she looks when he does. They go out sometimes and they took a day trip to the beach once and another to San Diego and they spent one evening just marathoning Star Wars and making out on his couch.

It’s a normal relationship. Standard. Healthy. And Stiles likes it, likes Malia a lot. For the first few weeks, it’s nothing but sunshine and rainbows, all of the highlights of a new relationship. But when the dust settles, when they relax into what is obviously a relationship made up of two adults, the shimmer wears off, and Stiles has time to be bogged down and distracted by thoughts of Derek, of Braeden, of them being happy just with each other now that Stiles is out of the picture.

He tries not to let it get to him. More than that, he tries not to let it show.

Four months into their relationship, Malia sits him down and says, “You’re not happy.”

“Yes I am,” Stiles argues, and he feel kind of offended too because he _is_ happy. He likes being with Malia, likes their relationship a lot actually, and just because it doesn’t match up to—to certain other things doesn’t mean he isn’t happy.

Malia doesn’t look upset. She only squeezes his hand. “We’re gonna be friends,” she tells him, “because I like you a lot and you could use some friends. But this isn’t good for you.”

She talks at him for about twenty minutes about displaced love and projecting emotions, and by the time she’s done, Stiles feels like a weight has been lifted that he never knew even existed.

“Friendship is magic,” Malia says, and Stiles barks out a laugh.

“I should never have shown you that.”

“It’s too late now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles muses. “Yeah, it is.”

* * *

 

He runs into Braeden on a normal Thursday, in a coffee shop he likes to go to when he’s heading into Paramount. She’s beautiful, as always, and there are people around her, taking pictures with their phones in what they think is a subtle way but really isn’t. When she sees him, Stiles feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“Let’s sit outside,” are the first words she says to him, and she grabs him by the collar of his shirt, tugging him out to a smattering of tables.

“I have to—”

“You can spare ten minutes,” she says, and she sits, kicks the opposite chair out. “Sit.”

She stares at him for what feels like forever, sipping at her iced coffee and looking him up and down. When Stiles doesn’t speak, she leans forward.

“We need to talk about Derek.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

She stares. Waits a beat. And another. Then, “Derek has a lot of love to give. Sometimes—one person just isn’t enough. And before us, Derek hadn’t even tried anything like that.”

“Braeden—”

“Don’t interrupt.” She folds her hands together. “We looked for other people to include. We’ve been looking for a few months. But I know Derek just wants you to come back.”

“How can you know—”

“He stopped calling because you asked him to; he stopped emailing, stopped trying to get involved, accepted that you were fucking that college girl, but that’s over now and he’s miserable.”

Good, Stiles doesn’t say. “He has you.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Braeden snaps. “He needs you too. He needs both of us.”

“It didn’t work last time. What’s supposed to change?”

“You’re supposed to stop seeing me as competition.”

Stiles doesn’t speak—can’t. He can’t deny it because that is what it felt like, like he was competing with Braeden for Derek’s time, for Derek’s attention, for Derek’s love. It felt like if he didn’t come out on top, it wasn’t worth any of it, because it meant that Derek wanted Braeden more than he wanted Stiles.

“I’m not your enemy,” Braeden says. “I love Derek. And he loves me. _And_ ,” she adds pointedly, “he loves _you_.”

“I asked him,” Stiles tells the table. “I asked him if he loved me and he didn’t say anything.”

“Because Derek doesn’t know how to communicate his feelings—you know that. He’s never been in the position to love two people at once. It’s new to him. It _was_ new to him.” Braeden kicks him softly under the table. “Stiles. He loves us both. And the only issue was that we ignored each other. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t productive.”

Stiles swallows. “So we’re supposed to be friends now.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “We’re supposed to be friends now. For ourselves and for Derek, because he’s miserable without you and I know you’re miserable without him too.”

Stiles palms his cup. “Okay. What’s your favorite movie?”

* * *

There’s about eight platonic friend dates. Maybe nine. Stiles doesn’t really count. There’s a lot of food that’s eaten, some laser tag that Braeden is annoying good at, plus some sessions at a gym that only serve to remind Stiles how long it’s been since he actually tried to make himself look slightly more fit. And Stiles doesn’t want to go around saying that Braeden was right all along, but—he doesn’t hate her. They have a lot more in common than he would’ve guessed, she’s actually fun to be around when he’s not thinking about her and Derek fucking against a wall, and Stiles can understand, honestly, why Derek likes her so much. She’s—good. Smart. Strong. Important. He gets it.

They’re sitting on Stiles’ couch with Chinese food and beers one night, Jon Stewart on the TV, and her phone rings. She glances at it, lets it ring out, tucks it back in her pocket.

“You can answer when Derek calls, you know,” Stiles says. “I’m not—it’s okay.”

She stares at the TV screen. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“To see him again?”

“To tell him you’re here for the long haul.”

Stiles tips his head back against the cushions. He loves Derek; that hasn’t gone away. But he can’t help but wonder if there aren’t deeper issues, if his previous negative feelings towards Braeden weren’t the only thing keeping him from pushing forward.

“Stiles. We should see him.”

“Tonight?”

She shrugs. “Tomorrow if you want.”

“No,” he says, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “Tonight. Let’s—see him. Tonight.”

It’s nerve wracking, pulling up in front of Derek’s building. He won’t pretend he isn’t nervous. He’s missed Derek, wants to see him again, touch him again. He wants that intimacy. Even just heading towards the elevator, surrounded with the familiar environment, a dull ache in him is satisfied. It feels like he’s coming home.

“Hey, Der,” Braeden says as he pulls open Derek’s door and leads Stiles in. “I have a surprise for you.”

Derek’s voice comes somewhere down the hall, towards the bathroom. “Not another vibrator,” he says with a huff. “You have no sense of self-preser—Stiles.” He stops in the middle of the room. He’s wearing long pajama pants and a thin T-shirt, and he’s carrying a mug, despite the fact that it’s nearly 11. “Hi,” he says, and Stiles remembers what it felt like before everything fell apart, before he lost himself and ran. “What are you doing here?”

The honest answer floods to his tongue before he can stop it. “I missed you.”

Brae grabs Stiles’ hand in her own. “I ran into him. We got to talking. And we evaluated some things we hadn’t thought of before.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “And I—wanted to see you again.”

Derek looks him up and down. “Me too. Come—c’mon in. Let’s—sit.”

It feels startlingly like coming home. He has his own apartment, has his own life, but sitting down on Derek’s couch in the spacious room of his loft is just a different level of comfort. It’s comfort in someone else’s space, Derek’s space that he’s made his own, and his lungs feel like they expand better, the beats of his heart are steadier, fuller. He just feels—whole.

They talk a lot. They talk for hours, and it’s a lot of back and forth, a lot of equal-footing conversation that Stiles can’t remember them ever having. For the first time since everything between the three of them started, he feels like he and Braeden and Derek are just the same, no one with any greater power than the other.

“We realized that what we were doing wrong with that we weren’t—including each other. Brae and I,” Stiles explains. “We were just— _I_ was just trying to forget that she existed by the end of it. And that wasn’t healthy. And it wasn’t what you needed.”

Laying his hands on Derek’s body again is every different type of right. The easy, casual action of laying his hand on Derek’s shoulder, it reaches right down into Stiles’ core and warms him. That’s the only encouragement he needs.

“You guys have been talking a lot, huh?” Derek asks, and he looks like he’s going to laugh, like he’s teasing them.

“We have,” Braeden says, tilting her chin up, daring him to challenge her.

“And it’s good that we have,” Stiles adds. “I see why you keep her around.”

Something changes in Derek’s expression. It’s a shift from cautious optimism to pure relief. “You do?” he asks. “You get it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Der,” he exhales weakly, “I get it. I get it.”

He does.

* * *

 

Stiles shouldn’t be surprised that their conversation dissolves into more purposeful touches, into Derek kissing him into the cushions. He shouldn’t be surprised when Derek licks into his mouth and asks, ever so sweetly, if he wants to stay the night.

This time, Stiles doesn’t try to ignore Braeden’s presence in the room. It’s welcome. It’s important. Derek is shameless about nakedness—always has been—and is happily lounging on the bed, waiting for Stiles to undress and join him. Brae stands on the sidelines, peeling off her jacket and kicking off her shoes, removing a scrap of clothing at a time, obviously trying not to send Stiles running.

Stiles honestly doesn’t mind. He just wants to kiss Derek stupid, over and over and over.

Derek groans against his neck, pulling Stiles further against his body. “Do you want to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles rasps, kissing him again and again. “If you want—if she wants—” He honestly can’t think about it right now, is too distracted by Derek’s body, his mouth, his warmth. Stiles is too focused on the comforting familiarity to think about anything else at all.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t register somewhere in his brain when Braeden joins on them on the bed, straddling Derek’s available leg and kissing down Derek’s neck. He notices, and he’s actually—glad. He wants Braeden to participate. He wants them all to feel included.

“Stiles,” Derek says, pulling back from the kiss. “You can say no, just—would you kiss her?”

Stiles blinks, looks at Braeden. She’s smirking slightly, still nuzzling at Derek’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “if that’s what you want.”

Derek nods, looking lost, and then Braeden is tugging him in and kissing the living daylights out of him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his ribs. She’s forceful, but tender at the same time. Thorough. It’s actually really nice, playful but intense at the same time, and he’s so focused on her mouth that he almost misses it when Derek snakes a hand into his underwear and grabs hold of his dick.

There’s a lot of shifting, movement, and Stiles wants to see what’s going on, why he’s being moved, why Braeden is shrinking in height and pulling him down further to meet her mouth—but she won’t stop kissing him and Derek doesn’t speak, so Stiles accepts his fate and continues on with the kissing. Because it’s nice. The kissing is nice.

It isn’t until she starts whimpering into his mouth that he finally brings himself to pull away.

Braeden is naked now, kneeling on the mattress, legs spread, and Derek is lying on his back, face tucked in between her legs, hands wrapped tightly around her thighs, eating her out like a fucking champion. He looks devastating, mouth and jaw working, tongue slipping around her folds and inside her, and she grips Stiles’ shoulders tight, moaning weakly.

“Holy shit,” he says quietly, cock bobbing against his stomach.

Braeden grabs him by the neck again, and he kisses her while Derek works her closer to orgasm. He can feel the way her body moves, sways, trying to just get the slightest bit more. When she comes, she tosses her head back and Stiles dutifully dips to kiss her neck, her throat. They stay like that for long, drawn out moments, until finally Derek situates himself between them, breathing into Stiles’ neck, pressing their bodies close together.

Stiles is shaking, so turned on he can barely breathe. “Fuck me,” he exhales, tugging on Derek’s hair. “Seriously, Derek, get in me right now.”

Everything is a jumbled hazy mess of pleasure. Derek’s body entwined with his, Braeden’s wandering hands and teasing mouth, and even though Stiles doesn’t foresee a lot more sexual intermingling with the two of them in the future, he likes this the way it is now, the casual touches, the easy kisses. It’s good. It’s right.

It’s hours to daybreak by the time Derek curls around Stiles and falls asleep against his neck. Braeden is there too, on Derek’s other side, and Stiles feels like he’s surrounded by affection, by comfort. He’s comfortably sore, lazy, and he kind of gets it now, the sharing of love, how the need to please and give and take can overwhelm someone. He’s thinking of that as he follows Derek into unconsciousness.

 


End file.
